


Five Goodnights

by ClandestinePen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor!John, Petulant!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:59:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClandestinePen/pseuds/ClandestinePen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It has been a long day, and with a concussed Sherlock to look after it doesn't look like there will be any rest for John in the near future."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Goodnights

**Author's Note:**

> A (very) belated gift for still-not-your-division, who was stood up by her partner in the Sherlock Secret Santa gift exchange. SNYD, I still wanted to play the part of detective when making this for you so I only dropped you a couple anon asks. I hope you like it. And, if you so desire, I can certainly write a second smut-addled chapter for you. ;)

The flat smells of the crackling flames in the fireplace, coffee brewing on the counter, and the leftover Thai that John stuffs into the refrigerator. With the white cartons put away, John returns to the sofa and holds out two white pills.

“Really, John?” The pain gives Sherlock’s voice a harsh edge.

“I’m not giving you anything stronger. I have to be able to wake you every hour until dawn, remember?” John’s hand holds out the pills, waiting for Sherlock’s inevitable fold.

“May as well give me nothing, then,” Sherlock snaps.

“Just...” John pauses to take a deep breath. This has been a long day, and there is no rest for him in the near future. “Please take them. They’ll help.”

Sherlock huffs in reply, and John casually threatens to take him to hospital because that really is the best place for someone suffering from a concussion. With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock snatches the pills from John’s open palm and dry swallows them.

“Good,” John praises. “Now get some rest. I’ll check on you in an hour.”

“Unnecessary.”

“Yet it is going to happen anyway,” John says with a firm smile. “Though it will be a little tough to gauge the mental state of a man that doesn’t generally know which day of the week it is.”

“How do you plan to assess my level of consciousness?” Sherlock asks as his brilliant eyes narrow in on John.

“Thought I’d just ask you some questions.” When Sherlock rolls his eyes, John says, “I assume you have an idea, then?”

“Tell me something about yourself, and I will tell you whether or not it is true.”

“You have a concussion and you really want to play mind puzzles just to prove you’re clever?”

“Don’t think I can?”

“In this state?”

“Going to use that to your advantage?”

John sighs, and agrees, if only to get Sherlock to stop talking and rest instead.

~~~

Beep. Beep. Beep.

John looks up as his phone alarms that one hour has passed. It didn’t seem like an hour. John spent the time pouring out all the details of the case he could remember to make writing the case up easier once he had some decent sleep. Decent sleep. The thought makes John laugh harshly.

He slides the laptop off his knees and sets it on Sherlock’s empty chair. Sherlock’s lithe frame is curled up on the sofa, and John pauses with his hand hovering over his shoulder to listen to his steady breaths.

“Sherlock,” he says as his hand gently shakes the man’s left shoulder. “Wake up.”

Sherlock makes a sleepy, disgruntled noise and tries to bury his head further into his pillow.

“The faster you wake up, the faster you can go back to sleep,” John says.

“I’m aware of my surroundings. Go away,” Sherlock replies.

“Not good enough,” John says. He pries open Sherlock’s eyelids and shines a light in them, earning an even more disgruntled noise. “I need to see if they’re equal and reactive.”

“They are.”

“I see that.” John sighs. “I had some digestives with my coffee while you were sleeping.”

“What?”

“The thing you suggested. I was telling you something about myself so you could tell me whether or not I was telling you the truth.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s eyes crack open just enough to look John up and down. “False. Also, your mother bought you that jumper three years ago on Boxing Day. Try harder next time.”

With that, he stretches once more then curls up on his side to return to sleep.

~~~

Beep. Beep. Beep.

John reaches over to stop the alarm on his mobile. He must have dozed off while watching a documentary about the Arctic. He pinches the bridge of his nose and inhales deeply in an effort to wake himself. Looking over, he sees Sherlock has barely moved in the last hour.

This time he spends less time trying to ease him out of sleep. “Sherlock!” John doesn’t wait for a response before shaking his shoulder.

“An hour already?” Sherlock grumbles.

“Afraid so,” John replies. He warns Sherlock of the coming light before shining it in his eyes. Equal and reactive. Good.

“A sleep cycle lasts 90 minutes. By waking me every 60 you are continually interrupting the cycle and depriving me of restorative sleep,” Sherlock says in a voice thick from disuse.

“Just twice more and that will mark six hours since the injury. Then you can spend the next dozen hours asleep,” John says. “Can you tell me today’s date?”

“That wasn’t our agreement.”

“Oh, come on Sherlock. It’s late. I can’t think of anything to tell you.”

“Try.”

John takes a deep breath. He didn’t think Sherlock would have agreed to answer simple questions like a normal person, but the cloud of exhaustion settling in his brain forced him to make the effort. “Alright. When I was a student I was so tired after I left the hospital one night that I fell asleep on the tube and rode it round for half the night.”

Sherlock’s eyes open and examine John with more effort than before. “That one is also false. It must have happened to someone you knew, possibly another student. Or you just heard it on the tube from another passenger. You must have spent more time on public transportation than most since you didn’t have money for cabs as a student and you never learned how to drive after your father’s accident.”

“Sorry, what?” John asks as he feels ice in his chest.

“Your father’s accident. When he drove drunk and killed that pedestrian. Surely you must remember that.”

“I never told you about that,” John says. Telling himself that he shouldn’t be angry with Sherlock for bringing that up doesn’t make it so.

“Was I not supposed to mention it?” Sherlock asks shortly. “Sorry, must have forgot my manners.”

“Yeah, must have,” John agrees. He doesn’t wait to hear a clever comeback. Instead, he leaves Sherlock on the sofa and takes a long hot shower.

~~~

Beep. Beep. Beep.

John doesn’t want to leave his room. His hair is almost dry now. He’s been sitting at his desk since he came back upstairs.

Most of the time, Sherlock picking him apart doesn’t bother John. Quite the opposite. He’s fascinated by Sherlock’s ability, and feels special when that attention is focused on him. But this... The story about his father is ancient history for John. Hearing it spilled out of Sherlock’s mouth on a whim brought hot licking flames of anger into his chest. And now, he doesn’t want to go down the stairs and face Sherlock again.

But, if the concussion is worse and John doesn’t notice...

John pulls on his dressing gown and takes the steps slowly. The sofa is empty. Damn. If Sherlock snuck out while John was in the shower... No. John can hear the soft rhythm of sleep breaths as he stands in front of Sherlock’s bedroom door. Pushing the cracked door ajar, he sees a long form stretched out under the duvet.

“Sherlock.” John reaches to shake him awake again, but Sherlock’s eyes fly open with John’s call. Professional as ever, John holds up the light before shining it at Sherlock’s pupils. “Equal and reactive. Good. Just once more and you can rest.”

“You’re not going to check my mental state?” Sherlock says as John rises from the awkward crouch he used to check his eyes.

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

John’s fingers are just touching the doorknob when his patient’s deep voice says, “

“Goodnight,” John says as he closes the door behind him.

~~~

This time, there is no beep. Instead, John is roused by the click of his bedroom door opening. On instinct, he reaches for the bedside table before a familiar voice says, “It’s me.”

“Sherlock?” John asks as he switches on the light.

“Your alarm will sound in two minutes. May as well turn it off and just examine me now,” Sherlock says.

He looks soft, here in John’s bedroom. Out of his element, which John supposes he is. Sherlock has rarely set foot in the upstairs room. His eyes are wide, trying to focus in the soft yellow light, and he is hunched forward a little. Anger, yes John remembers that he’s angry with Sherlock. But seeing him like this has taken the edge off. Still, they are both exhausted and John thinks he’ll like Sherlock much more once they’ve both had several more hours of sleep.

“Come here,” John says. He pats the side of the bed, and gets out on the other side to cross the room and pick up the tiny light he uses for examinations.

Sherlock sits, reaches for the phone on the bedside table, and pushes a few buttons before replacing it. John stands in front of him and switches off the lamp. His right hand raises to Sherlock’s face, to lift his eyelids as the light quickly passes over each shockingly light blue eye. John confirms aloud that they are both still equal and reactive.

“How’s your pain?” John asks, his voice hushed the way voices tend to be in the dark. He hasn’t switched the lamp back on.

“Tolerable.”

“You can have a couple more now. Should help you rest.” John pulls open his bedside table drawer and lifts out a white bottle of pills. He shakes two out and, when Sherlock opens his mouth rather than his hand, places them on the extended tongue. This time, Sherlock takes the water John offers.

“Feeling nauseous or light headed?” John asks.

“No. I’m fine.”

“Alright. Good. Then you’re officially free from care. Go have a good rest.”

“John.” Sherlock pauses, gathering his thoughts. “When I was seven, I discovered that my father was having an affair. At the dinner table.”

“Your father was having an affair on your family dinner table?” John smirks.

“No, no, no. We were having dinner, and I noticed lipstick on his collar. I pointed it out in front of my mother, Mycroft, the cook.”

“What happened?” John asks.

“Their marriage ended. He always preferred Mycroft, but that day sealed it. He always held it against me, I think. Though, of course, I wasn’t the one that committed adultery.” Sherlock watches John as the words leave his mouth.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“We all see our parents do terrible things, John. It doesn’t mean we’re terrible.”

“Ah.” John sits on the bed next to Sherlock, and their knees brush against one another. “I was twelve, and in the car when it happened. Part of the reason I was so keen on going into medicine. And yes, part of the reason I never wanted to learn to drive. But in London, you don’t really need a car.”

“Good thing you’re in London, then,” Sherlock says.

“Yeah. Good thing,” John agrees.

“And, I can drive. Should it ever become necessary.”

“I know.”

“So, we’re sorted then?” Sherlock asks without looking at John.

“Yes, we’re sorted.” John pats Sherlock’s knee. “Sometimes people don’t want to discuss their childhood trauma in the middle of the night on a Thursday. That’s all.”

“I will endeavor to remember,” Sherlock promises. “Now, budge over to your side.”

“My side? Of the bed? It’s my bed, Sherlock. All the sides are my side.” John lets himself sound exasperated.

“My bed is all the way downstairs,” Sherlock replies.

“So what? Should I go sleep on the sofa?” John asks.

“The sofa is all the way downstairs as well.” Sherlock nudges John over with his legs.

With a (slightly theatrical in its forced nature) sigh, John scoots over to the opposite side of the bed. Exhaustion wins out over any protests he could imagine. Sherlock is impossible. Perhaps the most impossible man John has ever known. But when he looks over at him, already under the duvet and sinking into the softer of John’s two pillows, his breath is a little shorter and his heart beats a little faster. Flatmates don’t do this, John thinks, but Sherlock is not your ordinary flatmate.

And so, John lets him stay.


End file.
